Ladies' Magazine 1828-11: Vol 1 Iss 11

&

LADIES’ MAGAZINE.

NOVEMBER. No. XI.

GRACE WENTWORTH.

Mrs. WentworrtuH was blessed with an abundance of
this world’s goods. In the bloom of youth and beauty she
was united to the man of her choice; a man, whose intellect
commanded her respect, and the daily beauty of whose life
ensured her love, while his fortune and standing in society
gratified her highest ambition. She might, by those who
looked only on the surface of things, have been prenounced
happy. Happy! How much is comprised in that one lit-
tle word,’ and how superficially must they have examined
the springs of human feeling, who trace happiness to any
other source than the heart. Mrs. Wentworth had not a
grateful one; and while all* good and pleasant things were
profusely scattered in her path, she passed them unheeded,
or received them as her due; but never has gifts from the
bounteous father of all good, to be meted out to others.

In the arrangements of her domestic establishment, at a

riod when females were celebrated for their knowledge
of household goods, Mrs. Wentworth was unrivalled. The
quick glancing eye ofa Miss Pratt, would never have ‘‘seen
a broom, where a broom should not be,” nor detected a
mote in her elaborately neat abode. Then her dinners,—
they, like the chef d@uvre of the Grecian artist, comprised
the pride of every cook, and the perfection of every re-
ceipt-book. Soextremely exact was she, in all the observan-
ces of etiquette, that, by the good people of Boston, she was

VOL. I.—NO. XI. 61

f
“
‘
oF
i is
Ki
4
te
iy?
ir ag
1s
y
23
is
“4
Be
oe
iz
7 . |

482 Grace Wentworth. [Nov.

i pronounced the very mirror of decorum:—and, like the
ul mirror, she was bright, polished, and unfeeling; like the
aa mirror, her heart received no abiding impression.
Wy Mr. Wentworth’s character, was most rich in christian
ii graces. With him the sovereign good was to communicate
a happiness; for he deemed it the first principle of action,
it with the Author of all existence. Happily for him, their
i daughter Grace possessed none of her mother’s traits of
i character, and it was delightful to her father, to watch the
i it gradual development of a disposition, so free from all that
if was cold, calculating, or selfish. So fearful was he of
if making her an artificial character, that he suffered her to
il remain, much as nature formed her,—with the faults of an
i open and confiding temper, and most in danger of erring
7 from ‘‘ excess of feelings edged too keenly.”
i Grace Wentworth had a highly cultivated mind, though
7 not what is termed a masculine one. She had judgment,
/ and discrimination, and taste, and a rich, beautiful imagina-
” tion, which cast its roseate hues over all, and through
i which she delighted to view the world, and its living men
oi and women, spiritualized and beautified. Her counte-
a nance expressed every emotion of her soul, and its ani-
a mated, varying expression, rendered it beautiful—most
| beautiful to those one knew her, and saw how much the
ij joyous and benignant emotions prevailed over the gloomy
| and discontented. Mr. Wentworth loved his daughter with
fond, engrossing affection; and Grace repaid his love with
it attachment the most devoted. When his spirits were de-
a pressed, she would cheer him; when weary, she would
amuse him; when sick, she would sooth him; and would
laugh with so much good nature, at some fancied disease,
that the saddest hypocondriac would have found her merri-
ment infectious. But one slight glance of disapproval
would instantly change the merry brow and arch smile, to
seriousness and thought, and convert the laughing girl, to
the grave, intelligent companion.

a Grace was admired; and it has been said, that no female
°

BF . can have many admirers, without attracting them by co-

| -quetry. The truth of this I doubt. ‘‘ Who can view the

i ripened rose, nor seek to wear it?”? Who can behold beau-

q
|

q 3 |

1828. | Grace Wentworth. 483

ty, sweetness and intelligence, without feeling, and offering
admiration? Though Grace was not insensible to the
praises of her loveliness, she never sought, nor courted ad-
miration; and no delicate and pure minded female ever can.

She was accustomed in her youth to seeing, collected
around her father’s board, the most distinguished worthies
of the day, and they were not a few. There she listened
to that stern, fearless, but able republican; he, who amidst
a host of patriotic spirits, was called the patriot—Samuel
Adams. There, too, she saw the idol of the people, the
generous, affable and hospitable Hancock; and the wit,
sarcasm, and eloquence of Otis, with the cultivated taste of
the excellent and benevolent Bowdoin, enlivened their social
circle. One of the most celebrated divines and politicians
of New-England, was also a frequent and welcome guest. In
him these characters were admirably united. ‘‘Dr. Cooper,”
observes his eulogist, ‘‘ well knew that tyranny opposes it-
self to religious as well as civil liberty; and being among
the first to perceive the injustice of the British Court, this
reverend patriot was among the first who took an early and
decided part in the politics of his country.” His uncom-
mon colloquial talents, his extensive learning, brilliant
imagination and retentive memory, would have made any
subject interesting. What wonder then, that when the
spirit stirring events of the revolution were discussed, they
should have awakened Grace’s warmest enthusiasm? But
this was not all; her gratitude and affection were excited
by the kind attention with which he answered her inquiries,
and endeavoured to awaken her susceptible mind to the
perception of the deep beauties of the sacred volume. The
mantle of his father had fallen upon him, and he possessed
the rare talent of making religious truths deeply interest-
ing, and of enforcing them by appropriate scriptural allu-
sions—admirable, but, at the same time, familiar to the
meanest capacity.

Boston has been called the ‘‘ paradise of ministers;’’ at
all times, its citizens have evinced their descent from the
puritans, by their respect for their pastors. Grace inherit-
ed this true New-England feeling—veneration for hers.

Thus matured amid the master spirits of the age, it can-

j Hal
3
+
q
|.
|
q
4
i
‘ 4
4

} 454 Grace Wentworth. | Nov.

: not be supposed that her young affections were to be won
a by any ordinary character, and it was no common spirit
} y that at last obtained an interest in her unpractised heart.
OF Among the greatest delights that Mr. Wentworth enjoyed,
a during his residence at a foreign court, was the friendship
; q | of M. de Valliecre, and he was the only person whom Grace
i had ever heard her mother warmly praise. Favors so pecu-
‘ liarly disinterested had been rendered by him, and so deli-
i cately rendered, that no unpleasant sense of obligation was
i felt, and even the selfish heart of Mrs. Wentworth was
| made sensible to the emotion of gratitude.
|e M. de Valliere was a French West Indian Planter, and
, for years, had been a correspondent of Mr. Went-
worth’s. Grace had been delighted with the good sense
and eloquence of his letters, with the glowing and animated
a descriptions of the scenes he had witnessed in his foreign
a travels. She had also felt deeply interested in the benevo-

{ lent plans, and noble and philanthropic sentiments expressed
a towards the degraded Africans. Her imagination had
pictured him a venerable old man, yet wearing a smile as
bland and courteous as her pastor’s, with the same clear eye,
bearing the evidence of temperate youth.

Returning one morning from her usual walk, she observ-
ed a foreign travelling apparatus in the hall. ‘ Phillis,”
said she to an old favorite domestic, whose face appeared
more than usually joyous, ‘‘ what strangers have we here?”

‘¢ Mister Valer come, Miss Grace, and make us all glad.”

‘Dear father,” said she, entering the drawing room,
‘‘howshappy this arrival must make you. Kind de Valliere,
is he not, to cross the ocean at this inclement season, and
at his advanced age, too, to visit his friend?”

Her father’s unchecked laugh startled her, and she turned
her head on hearing an approaching step. .She met a smile,
bland and courteous, it is true, yet showing teeth brilliant
i and glittering as pearls. The clear lighted eye was there,
ii but the lofty mien wore no stamp of age. True, the brow
Yq was not fair as youth, but it bore the ‘‘ thought of years,”
. not their decrepitude.

Jn a year from the time he first beheld her, Grace Went-

3

}
|
E
|
]
|
i
ig
4

M
=
&

1828. ] Grace Wentworth. 485

worth stood by the side of Robert de Valliere, his wedded
wife; and in the Island of St. Domingo, in the summer of
1791, Mr. Wentworth witnessed their almost perfect hap-
gy Grace’s character had become more perfect by
ier fulfilment of all the sweet offices of wife and mother.
He saw her amiable hospitality, diffusing around her an
atmosphere of light and happiness; he witnessed the charm
of her delightful vivacity and endearing domestic virtues,
‘* virtues, which, though they are said to love the shade,
are sometimes chilled by the cares of domestic life.” He
saw the beloved and affectionate mother ;—the heart of the
husband safely trusting in the principled and conscientious
wife,—the watchful mistress of a host of dependants, grate-
ful for their ameliorated condition, and looking to Mons.
and Mad. de Valliere as the creators of their happiness.

With so much kindness and liberality had the negroes
on their plantation been treated; so many advantages did
they enjoy, that it had become a proverbial expression
among the white lower people in Cape Francois, in speak-
ing of another’s happiness, to say “al est heureux comme un
negre de Valliere.”

To Mr. Wentworth, all appeared like a summer’s morn
of bright and tranquil beauty, with not a breeze to disturb
its repose and softness; but the calm was treacherous—and
only made the night of darkness and horror that followed,
more dreadful.

Business of importance ealled Mr. Wentworth to New-
England; he went, accompanied by De Valliere; but Grace,
unwilling to leave her children during the sultry month of
August, remained on the Island.

She had passed a restless night, and on the morning of
the 23d, arose, unrefreshed by her broken slumbers. Her
serenity was disturbed by a confused recollection of being
awakened before dawn, by the report of a cannon, and she
felt a gloomy foreboding, an unaccountable depression of
spirits, which she could not dispel. Even the performance
of her morning devotions had failed to restore her usual
equanimity and buoyancy of spirits. She sought her nur-
sery, and in the caresses of her children, in gazing on their
merry brows and sunny smiles, listening to the gush ef en-

ay
ik 4
|
| f
|
4
=
#
i
}
2
3
3
By
3
4
4 af

486 Grace Wentworth. [ Nov.

joyment that broke forth in irrepressible laughter, she for-
got her own sadness. Her youngest boy was in her arms,
endeavoring to blindfold his mother, by binding her luxu-
riant hair over her smiling eyes, when a loud, sudden
and savage yell, broke in upon their innocent merriment.
She heard the dying groans of her faithful negroes, mingling
with the shouts and execrations of the merciless slaves, who
had arisen in rebellion against their masters. Breathless
and motionless—her hushed and frighted children cling-
ing around,—she perceived at once the horrors by which
she was surrounded. Uncertain how extensive was the
revolt, she knew not if safety could be found in flight; but
it was horrible, thus hopelessly to await her own and her
children’s massacre.

The door of the veranda was cautiously and silently
opened, and James, (a servant, whose superior intelligence
and fidelity had obtained from his master his freedom,)
appeared. Not a word was spoken,—but catching two of
the children in his arms, and motioning his mistress to fol-
low, he passed through the veranda and the garden. Si-
lently and rapidly, with her child clinging to her neck,
Grace reached the outskirts of the plantation. Here, new
horrors awaited her. A band of insurgents demanded with
savage exultation, the blood of the white woman and her
children.

*¢ Stand back, and let us pass,” said James, sternly, but
calmly. ‘‘ Are ye men, and would ye take the life of the
black man’s friend? Have ye gratitude, and would ye
murder the children of those who have always protected
and sheltered the negro in his wants?”

‘* The lady may go,” said they; ‘‘ but the boy shall not
escape us.”’

One of the most ferocious of the band tore the trembling
child from his mother. Quicker than thought, James dis-
engaged himself from the children, recovered the boy, and
levelled the savage to the ground.

Begone,” he cried, ‘I will lose my life before you shall
harm this boy.”

For the honor of human nature, they were suffered to
escape. Grace passed rapidly, and with averted eye, scenes

|
:
|
|
}
|
‘
|
|
j |
|
7 i!
ig
a
J

1828. | Grace Wentworth. 487

too horrible to be related; and reached in safety a retreat
in a neighboring and mountainous wood.

At night, the faithful James brought them provisions, 4
and intelligence of the proceedings of the insurgents; and ali.
during the day, he kept watch around their retreat. But a
anxious for their safety, and knowing his single arm would i id
avail little, should the excited slaves again discover them, if a
he provided a canoe for their escape, and conducted them 4 |
to it by slow marches in the night, along the banks of the ee
river. They entered the canoe, but it was soon overset by i i

the rapidity of the current, and after a narrow escape they
returned to their retreat in the mountains.

Nineteen days Mad. de Valliere and her children remain- rm
ed in the wood, before James felt. they could leave it in oa
safety. He constantly supplied them with provisions from i
the rebel camp, and watched atound them like a guardian i
spirit. He at length provided a passage in a ship bound ot
for New-England, and conducted them, with much hazard :
and difficulty, to the port.*

Grace knew not how extensive had been the storm of
death and desolation, till she saw the once flourishing and
beautiful town, a waste and ruin, with thousands of its in-
habitants exterminated in the massacre. Her voyage was
tranquil and happy; and in her own, native land, she again
embraced all who were dear to her.

Many years have come and gone since the events record-
ed. ‘Time has whitened the locks of Mad. de Valliere, and
robbed her cheek of its smoothness; but it has left un-
touched that heavenly spirit that sustained her under the
pressure of ill, and enabled her to endure her sorrows
patiently; it is not the meteor light of levity, but an un-
wavering, placid beam, that illumines those whose faith
is fixed upon the Rock of Ages.

* The account of the escape of Mad. de Valliere, through the fidelity and
attachment of her servant, is derived from an authentic source. His name
was James Francois.

of
|
4
$
t4
4
, :
4
{
|
amy
t
{
|

Happy Moments.

HAPPY MOMENTS.

THE golden age of childhood !
Oh, there are happy moments then,
That come, and go—yet come again,
And the young heart secure
From fears, and pains, and follies vain ;
And free from guilt’s disgraceful stain,
They keep the spirit pure.

The days of youthful friendships,
When heart to heart is lightly bound
In rosy wreaths, that twine them round

More beautiful than strong,

And even in breaking, scatter flowers,
The rapid growth of sunny hours,
That heal their wounds ere long.

The spring of early love too—
When the true soul is linked forever
In holier bonds, that never, never

By earthly power are riven,

Ere yet sweet confidence forsake
The heart that must be loved or break,

Dreams, earthly dreams of Heaven !

These, these are happy moments,
And such are those that bid rejoice
The awakened chords, when Nature’s voice
Calls up in kindred glow,
The mothers’ hope, the mothers’ pride,
Joys, tenderness, and all beside,
That only mothers know.

But dearer things than these do lie .
Within our mortal grasp ,—and earth
Hath not a moment from our birth,

The cradle to the sod,
Like that, when freed from passion’s sway,
The mind rejects a feebler stay,

And rests its hope on God !

A. M. W.

Nov.

5
3
|
3

i
of
if
i
q |
if :
{
a P
4
b>
if
ii
}
WW
4
a
i
j
|
ia

1828. ] Sketches of American Character. 489

SKETCHES OF AMERICAN CHARACTER.
NO. XI.
WILLIAM FORBES.

“* What answer did Elizabeth give?”

Tose readers of the magazine, who have been sufficient-
ly interested in the work, to retain a recollection of the
contents of the May number, may remember, that ‘The
Village Schoolmistress” was left undecided respecting the
answer she should make to the matrimonial suggestion of her
recreant but repentant lover, William Forbes.

We have given her six months to consider the matter,
and in this steam age of the world, no woman ought to re-
quire a longer time to make up her mind. What envia-
ble advantages the antediluvian ladies enjoyed! They might
reflect and reject, doubt and delay, consider and coquet,
for at least, three hundred years, without any risk of incur-
ring that appalling epithet, which now, in the brief period
of thirty, is sure to be bestowed on the fair one who
dares to remain in ‘single blessedness.” Yet J never
envied that long-lived race. I am inclined to believe, the
movement of the spirit was then as sluggish as the course
of time. It must have been so, or the body could not, for
so long a season have resisted the efforts of the soul, to es-
cape from its prison house. And this sluggishness must
have infected their literature. What interminable, prosing
articles, many of our writers are even now, inclined to
perpetrate? and if their hours might be lengthened to years,
would infallibly inflict upon the public. Nothing but the
necessity of accommodating himself to the proverbial speed
of time, will induce’ your thorough quill-loving author, to
come to the conclusion of his favorite argument or article.
And from this mania of ‘long talks,” which seems inhe-
rent in most writers, we may safely conclude, that those
men of a thousand years, would not neglect their mighty
privilege of making folios. To be sure, in the dullest
of all dull matter-of-fact knowledge, chronology and gene-
alogy, they had the means of excelling. But romance—

VOL. I.—NO. XI. 62

de

NET

|
$
3
3
3
i
i
3
i
3
4
‘a

490 Sketches of American Character. (Nov.

dear, delightful romance—what chance for a romance
writer, when every event that had occurred since cre-
ation was within the memory of man! And how could
they write poetry, among such an unchanging and death-
less generation? It would not certainly be the poetry of
feeling—melting, moving, melancholy poetry; for instance,
like that most beautiful of all Burns’ beautiful proguctions,
‘Highland Mary.’ And where did they find metaphors
to express the long unfading duration of the youth they
must have enjoyed? Not in those bright, beautiful, but
evanescent, or shifting things—buds and flowers—the
morning and the moon. Only think of comparing the
charms of a lovely girl, to the firmness of the mountain
oak, or the unwasting, unvarying appearance of the solid
rock! Then they had no rainbow. Ah, they never wrote
poetry—that’s certain!
- Other reasons, quite as pertinent and conclusive, might
easily be offered, to prove what a dull, cold, formal,
changeless and charmless race they must have been,—but of
all kinds of knowledge, I consider antiquarian lore as the
most unwomanly. It must be gained by so much research,
and explained by such learned terms, and defended by so
many arguments, in the Sir Pertinax style of obstinacy,
that, heaven defend me from ever meeting with that an-
omaly in our species—an antiquarian without a beard.
Leaving it therefore, to some future Jonathan Oldbuck, as
curious and communicative as he of Monkbarns, to pursue
the inquiry respecting the precise age at which we may
conclude a belle of the Nimrodian era, became an old
maid, I will return to the explanation of those modern
causes which gave to Elizabeth Brooks that uncoveted title.

I have said, or ought to have said, that William Forbes
was an excellent scholar, the very first in his class, and,
undoubtedly indebted for much of his mental superiority,
to that circumstance, which is so often, and truly too, con-
sidered a serious obstacle to the literary career of a col-
legian—namely, his love engagement.

This unusual result, must be attributed to the fact, that
Elizabeth Brooks had the good sense, to use rightly and
rationally, the influence she possessed over the heart and

|
7
ae
|
HEE
‘
4
i
|
|
i |
|
L
ill
i 3
i

1828. | Sketches of American Character. 491

soul of the young student. Instead of wishing to engross
his mind and time, with the trifles which must occupy
much of the life of a young girl, she admired, and sought
to imitate him in his studies. And that simple circum-
stance, contributed more to animate him in his exertion,
than all the lectures of his tutors, or the prospect of obtain-
ing triumphs over his class-mates. How eagerly he read,
and how early he answered all her long epistles with let-
ters still longer;—and yet their correspondence was like that

5
of literary friends. To a stranger, their letters would

scarcely have betrayed that they were lovers. His were
filled with translations from the classics, beautiful senti-
ments that enchanted him, and must therefore enchant
Elizabeth—explanations of ancient customs and costumes,
which threw light on some otherwise obscure passages he
had read to Elizabeth,—solutions of problems, or explana-
tions of questions that had been proposed by Elizabeth.
Her answers were more sprightly than his, (a woman who
can write at all, seldom writes a dull letter,) but neverthe-
less, were sufficiently learned to have entitled her, had they
been seen by a literary coxcomb, to that frightful appela-
tion, a bas bleu. I say frightful, because the terror of that
name, has prevented, and still prevents more women from
cultivating their minds, than would the fear of the dungeon
or the rack. It is the intellectual Blue Beard, threatening
an awful and unknown punishment to those women, who
dare a single peep into the secret chambers of knowledge—
and where isthe learned lady, who can ever hope for a
generous Selim to rescue her from the keen, uplifted edge
of the sword of sarcasm?

Elizabeth Brooks, however, was wiser than most wise
ladies,—that is, she did not assume those airs, which some
learned women think so indispensable to distinguish their
important selves from the crowd. She might be a little
proud of her learning, she was certainly proud of William’s
learning, but the pride of teaching him—that pride which
makes men so thoroughly dread, detest, and ridicule a
learned woman, she never displayed. Even when, as was
frequently the case, he acknowledged, the superior justness
of her remarks, or submitted to the justness of her criti-

a
|
|
fe
|
]
]
4
2
5
|
|
|
|
|
5
4
3 4
|
=
|

492 Sketches of American Character. | Nov.

cisms, she did not express any triumph—but modestly as-
cribed her discernment to some hint or information he had
before given her; thus making his self-love aid in the in-
fluence she possessed over him. And for many years, the
attachment fostered between these young persons, appear-
ed, and indeed was of that pure, refined, intellectual and
exalted character, which poets would tell us, was ‘half
divine” and would be quite eternal. It was that kind of
affection which, if ought dependent on human passion
were changeless, might hope to be so. But, alas! the
heart—Who can answer for the wayward heart, or more
wayward fancy?

The parting, and as affecting one as a novel writer ever
witnessed, maugre all their sentimental descriptions,—the
parting of William and Elizabeth has been already recorded,
and it irks me quite as much to tell a story twice, as to lis-
ten to a twice told tale. So we will without further cere-
mony, accompany my hero to Albany, and consider him
entered as a student-at-law, in the office of Judge Morse.
(Note. Almost every lawyer in New-York, has, or might
have, the title of Judge.) Mr. Morse was a good, that is,
a true specimen of the professional, political, popular men
in New-York. He was social and hospitable, frank, cheer-
ful, and fond of humour, if not himself awit. He was also
rich and respected, had a gay, agreeable wife, and sev-
eral children, and his house was one of the most fashiona-
ble in the city, and the resort of all the fashionables.

Here was a marvelous change to William. He was trans-
ferred at once from the formal routine and rigid rules of a
college life, where no flirting with the ladies was permitted
to be thought of, except the etherial flirtation of wooing
those shy lasses, the ‘‘ sweet and sacred Nine,’”’ and where
nothing in this round world was considered so important,
as to have the first appointment in the class, or be able to
write the best ‘‘ ode to Hope, or sonnet to Despair,” and
introduced into the society of elegant and, as he thought,
the most enchanting peeple on earth, and to the bustle and
business of a large city.

Judge Morse had been long and intimately acquainted
with the father of William Forbes, and to that circum-

4
q
if
ii
4
|
|
|
4 He
ia
|
t |
@
4 i
|
|
|
|
|
Hh,
Hi i
| |
#

1828. | Sketches of American Character. 493 ly
stance, the young student was indebted for the enviable ah
“ Be. privileges he enjoyed of being admitted to the family parties Hs
of the distinguished lawyer. Indeed, William was soon
considered and treated as one of the family. (What an ex- a

cellent passport to really good society those young people
enjoy who have good parents.) William Forbes had prom-
ised to write particularly of all that befel him—all his
adventures, and all his reflections were to be communicated
to Elizabeth. But he soon found it very perplexing and
disagreeable, if not impossible, to keep his word. He
could describe the country tolerably well, and the people
en masse—but to tell Elizabeth of all the parties, balls, &c.,
: he attended would, he feared, make her unhappy in her

‘

retirement; to tell her of the pretty and fascinating girls he I,
met, might make her jealous. His amusements, therefore, fe
q could not be described to Elizabeth. Neither would his Ba
employments figure much better in an epistolary display. i 4
H In all his studies at college she had participated in inclina- oa
tion, if not in understanding —but Law—dry, musty, unin-
telligible, inexplicable Law—how could he make her com- 4 ;

prehend what was to himself incomprehensible. He knew
indeed, that she was so devoted to him and his pursuits,
4 that had she been near him she would, for his sake, have
: looked on the volumes of Blackstone without shuddering;
perhaps have looked into them sufficiently to have learned
the difference between lex non scripta, and lex scripta. At
any rate she would have been interested, and listened
delightedly to the history of her lover’s progress in that
study so exclusively masculine. But this sympathy could
not be excited by a written correspondence; so William re-
linquished the idea of describing his studies to Elizabeth.
Most of our scholars pass their three years of preparation
and four years at college, solely with the view of being bet-
ter qualified for active life. Few, if any, are intending to
devote themselves toscience or the cultivation of elegant lit-
erature. Thenecessary details of business, and the feverish
anxiety of politics,ina few years wholly engross their minds,
and unless the memory be exceedingly tenacious, of all the
rich hoards of Greek and Roman lore they had once boasted
only a few sparkling gems, kept for display, remain. This

;
ice
if
{
a
Ves
on
ay
3

494 Sketches of American Character. [ Nov.

does not happen because Americans are incapable of compre-
hending the profound depths of science, or of appreciating
and admiring the sublimities of genius—it is purely the eflect
of our situation. With such a vast country to cultivate and
control, unceasing activity is demanded, and there are, at

resent, no supernumeraries. Then the chance of success
in public life is so tempting to the ambitious,—and who
will not be ambitious, when there is a chance of success?
that almost all our men of talents are, at least once in
their lives, members of Congress—in expectation, I mean.
William Forbes had thus visited the Capitol, and been in-
stalled in the speaker’s chair before he had spent six months
with Judge Morse. And that was a Quixotic speculation
which he would by no means have been willing to commu-
nicate to Elizabeth.

Thus the sources of confidence and sympathy seemed,
on his part, constantly contracting, and he grew formal
without intending it. If Elizabeth noticed this change she
did not note it. She had much of that kind of good sense,
commonly called sagacity, which means, the faculty of
foreseeing consequences; and she must have reflected that
reproaches never have the effect of enkindling the passion
of a lover, however they may operate on that of a husband.
So she did not complain that William’s letters were cold,
formal, short; but she wrote often and affectionately, and
described her business and her pleasures, her school and
the neighbours, just as if she felt confident he would be in-
terested in every thing that concerned her. It was the
best plan she could have adopted, to maintain her sway
over the heart of William; and it served, notwithstanding
the temptations by which he was surrounded, to keep him
for more than two years, constant to the idea of making
Elizabeth his wife. And though he might sometmes show
a little more gallantry, than is usually displayed by an en-
gaged man, towards the fair and fascinating ladies with
whom he associated, and about whom he was often rallied,
yet he never regretted his engagement, never, in his secret
soul, meditated proving, what he did prove,—a traitor to
his love;—never till the fair Clarinda appeared. I must
describe her. Clarinda Curtis was the daughter of a New-

|
|
mac
¥
|
it
q
J
|

t

1828. | Sketches of American Character. 495

York merchant, a successful merchant, for at the age of

“% twenty, he left the vicinity of the Green Mountain, with

jonly two changes of apparrel and two dollars in cash, and

“in thirty years, passed in the ‘“‘Commercial Emporium,”’ he

had acquired a princely fortune. Clarinda was the only
child by his first wife, and from her mother inherited a
large estate. She was also rich, in expectations, from her
maternal grandmother, by whom she had been brought up.
Then she was beautiful, splendidly beautiful: tall, even
to the majestic, as Vermont beauties usually are, and so
finely formed! Her height she inherited from her father
but the symmetry, so gracefully elegant, the rounded arm,
taper fingers and slender foot, were not quit so strictly
Vermontese; though these perfections are much oftener
possessed by your rural lasses, than the city belle, or the
more fastidious city beau, who is usually a perfect Chinese
in his admiration of small feet, imagines possible. Cla-
rinda’s features, with one exception, were perfect as statu-
ary could be moulded. Her forehead was too narrow
and receding, but examined by the rules of art, no oth-
er fault could have been discovered. Arched eyebrows,
Grecian nose, the rose-bud mouth, with the sweet curl on
the upper lip that so easily and advantageously displays
the white teeth—the round dimpled cheek, and exquisite
chin, defying all adjective descriptions of round or square,
or long or short,—all we can say of it is, that it was shap-
ed precisely as a beautiful chin should be. And these fea-
tures were harmonized by a brilliant complexion; pure red
and white, and both in their proper places; and enlivened
by a pair of blue eyes, of a softness that would have looked
almost sleepy ina small girl, but belonging as they did, to
a majestic beauty, seemed to throw an additional grace, the
grace of repose over her loveliness. Fine, glossy, ‘‘ nut
brown” hair, which she wore ina peculiarly becoming
style, completed all we shall describe of her outward form
of beauty. Alas, that this should be a show merely, not
the index of inward excellence, that this comeliness should
not extend to mind! Who can imagine such a lovely look-
ing being as I have described and believe her a simpleton!
Yet Clarinda Curtis with all her charms, was a dunce; that

—

‘

4

$

Aq if

4

4 ty

4

|

:

big

j
ie

iB

&

tala

a

496 Sketches of American Character. [Nov.

thing which sensible and educated young men often admire
for a inistress; but which sensible and educated married men 4

complished dunce! Nature was not wholly in fault. The ~~
original constitution of her mind was undoubtedly dull, she
was slow to comprehend—but then she was brought up by
a doting grandmamma, and never, till she was full twelve
years old, suffered to do any thing save to grow. Could
her tender relative have spared her that trouble she would,
as she used often to express her fears, that the poor child
would weary herself with so much stretching and yawning.
At length Mr. Curtis interfered, and threatened to take his
daughter home if she was not better instructed; and frighten-
ed at the prospect of losing her darling, grandmamma re-
solved the child should learn every thing. Masters of all
kinds and professions were engaged, and poured their les-
sons like a mingled flood over the unprepared mind of
their pupil, tillthe few ideas, that had, by the kindly in-
fluence of nature, began to shoot, were deluged or uproot-
ed, and no other ever had time to fix. All her knowledge
seemed floating, unsystematised, and unconnected as the
sentiments in a scrap-book, where, although you may have
collected something on every subject, you can never be
sure of finding that which is needed, or appropriate to the
subject under discussion. Not one of her numerous mas-
ters but was ashamed of their pupil, except the dancing
master. Strange as it may seem, with her indolent habits,
she did love to dance. The excitement of motion was so
novel, she was in perfect extacies with dancing, and she
soon danced gracefully. For the rest, she could play a lit-
tle, sing a little, draw a little, and speak a few French
phrases; but she could not have told whether Mexico was
in North or South America; nor have subtracted 7 from
15;—nor wrote a letter of a dozen lines without misspelling
as many words; nor read a paragraph in a newspaper intel-
ligibly. She was a dunce; and yet William Forbes, with
all his learning and penetration, his taste and talent, did not
discover it. She passed a fortnight with her aunt, (Mrs.
* Morse was her aunt,) and William saw her every day, and
conversed with her every day, and fell in love with her,

will always find exceedingly disagreeable for a wife—an ac-\ ™%

i
|
|
{
|
Hi; ig@ *
Hi
J
a
q
4
5
|
4
q q

1828. ] Sketehes of American Character. 497

and never discovered she was a Cunce. It was stranze, he
afterwards ack»owledged, but then she was so beautiful it

> wovld have seened profane to have doubted the elegance

5

of her ming, tue propriety and beau’y of her thoaghis.
Bet though Wiliam was enchanted with her appearance,
and actually in that most woful of all lover-like predica-
ments, engrossed with the charms of one fair maid, while he
was engaged to marry another not so fair, he might, and I
am inclined to believe he would have acted the honorable
part, and been true to Elizabeth, had he not discovered
that Clarinda was in love with him. How the discovery
was made I do not know, but made it was, and William
must have been a hero indeed if, besides subduing his own
inclination, he could have rejected the beauty and fortune
that seemed, as Judge Morse remarked, designed by heaven
to make him blest, and insure his success in the world.
N. B. Judge Morse was not aware of the ignorance and
indolence of his niece; he had seen her but seldom, and
heard her less; for she had the good luck to be naturally taci-
turn, and real good luck it was, since her appearance was so
much in her favor, that her silence was called eloquent.
Had she spoke—but she rarely did, except in monosylla-
bles. She was too indolent to converse. William Forbes
married her, as all my readers know, but they do not know
what mortifying disappointment he endured, when he found
with what a ‘‘ soulless” being he was destined to pass those
hours of domestic intercourse his fancy had always painted
as the most enviable privilege the married state afforded.
Had she been, as many superficial ladies are, sprightly and
amusing; he might have thought, as many men do, that
learning was quite unnecessary for the sex; but such indif-
ference and inanity displayed her ignorance in the most
glaring and disagreeable point of view. She seemed un-
feeling, because she could not enter into any of his ideas,
or respond to his sentiments. With Elizabeth his inter-
course had been so truly and purely that of intellect, their
affection had been so founded on mutual esteem for each
other’s capacity, that nothing but experience would have
convinced him, that the love of rational and intelligent
beings could be maintained without some sympathy of

VOL. I1.—NO. XI. 63

3
ig
4
st
4
4
+ 5
4
ve
|
‘ 4
ta
4
4
a
3
4
Jee
igs

498 Sketches of American Character. (Nov.

mind. But he knew his wife loved him, and wished to
please him, and that knowledge made him feel indulgent

towards her ignorance, which ,he pitied more than he de- ~

5
spised. So passed the time for a few months, and though

not happy, yet he might have enjoyed the pride of being
thought happy, as the having a handsome wife and rich
wife, is pretty generally considered a passport to happiness,
_had he not unwisely taken it into his head, that it was pos-

sible to make his bride wise. He thought she could im-
prove, and that she would improve if she only knew how
much his felicity depended on finding a companion in his
wife; and so he took a whole evening for the purpose, and
gravely as a teacher, told her what he wished her to study
and read, and how he expected she would join in the con-
versation with him and his friends &c., sketching precisely,
though he might not be aware of it, the intellectual charac-
ter of Elizabeth as a model for his Clarinda. He might
with just as much reason have drawn the portrait of Cla-
rinda’s beautiful features, and expected Elizabeth to mould
hers by the picture. There is an old and quaint verse that
I recollect reading when a child, which now frequently
recurs to my mind when I witness some ridiculous displays
of those who attempt to fill a niche for which nature never
designed them.

The man of wisdom may disguise

His knowledge, and not seem too wise;
But take it for a constant rule

There’s no disgvising of a fool.

There, is no disguise for such an one but in silence; and
thrice blest are those simpletons who have the gift of si-
lence. Clarinda possessed it, but love, what will not the
magical power of love effect? loosened her tongue. Her
husband requested she would read, and she determined to
read; her husband wished her to talk, and she resolved to
talk. But unfortunately, the jumble of ideas that had per-
vaded her head, ever since she underwent the penalty of
listening to the lectures of six different masters in the course
of the twenty-four hours, besides her grandmamma’s ad-
vice to remember all she heard, had so confounded her
memory and understanding, originally weak, that though

i
t
I
(
i

|
4
:
if
| i
j
q
4
if
4
|
}
|

1828. | Sketches of American Character.’ 499

she read, she could neither compare, reflect or generalize;
and when she attempted to introduce in her conversation,
any thought she had gathered from books, it was done
with such an effort, and her quotations were so inappro-
priate, that her ignorance was never so apparent as in her
learned phrases. Then she had the habit into which your
poor conversationalists usualy fall, namely, asking ques-
tions. I know nothing more disagreeable that does not
absolutely shock one’s principles, than to be subjected to the
society of a questioner. And William Forbes disliked it
exceedingly, but nevertheless, he bore with his wife’s ques-
tions for along time magnanimously, hoping she would,
as she gained information, become capable of maintaining
a conversation without such ‘‘ questionable” aid. He hop-
ed in vain. She never, in society, could speak upon any
subject but by a question, and the more confidence she
gained in her own powers, and the more she conversed,
the more ridiculously her questions were distributed among
her acquaintance. How often did her husband wish, while
his cheeks were glowing with shame at some blunder she
had committed, that he had never urged her to talk. And
she did it to please him—what could he say? No matter
what the subject of conversation was, she would question.
To give a few instances. One day when an eminent coun-
sellor dined with Mr. Forbes, they happened, in their legal
disquisitions to allude to a writ of fi. fa. and Mrs. Forbes
eagerly demanded if that writ was not made against a sing-
ing master? At another time. she asked a lawyer, with a
real compassionate voice, if John Doe and Richard Roe,
could not take advantage of the insolvent act ?>—Those blun-
ders to be sure, related to matters which a lady is not
obliged to understand, yet she should understand enough
to say nothing when they are introduced; but another blun-
der she made, could not be so easily excused. Her hus-
band was appointed to deliver the address before an Agri-
cultural Society, and proud enough she was of the honor
conferred upon him. She could talk of nothing else, and
among her host of questions on the occasion, she asked a
celebrated rearer of merinos, why he did not obtain some

cotton-wool-sheep and exhibit at the show?

>

4
:
<
y
3
~
| >
|
|
is

500 Sketches of American Character. [Nov.

I mention these circumstances that young men, intelligent
and educated young men may be warned against marrying
a dunce, though she may be beautiful and rich, and affec-
tionate, yet if she be a dunce—‘‘she must, she will bring
shame and sorrow” on her husband. And young ladies—
is there not a lesson to them in this exhibition? Do they
not feel that though they may be beautiful and rich, and
married to the man they love, and who returns their affec-
ions, yet, unless they have cultivated and improved their
minds, they cannot make their husband happy or respectable.

Mrs. Forbes suddenly died during the tenth year of her
marriage, and those who think her husband rejoiced, will
do him foul wrong. He shed tears of unaffected sor-
row over her pale corpse, for he felt she loved him,
and that the pang of death to her was separation from him.
But then his grief was not of that deep, enduring kind
which is cherished by the survivor when kindred minds are
tornasunder. He grieved that his wife should die more for
her sake than his own, or that of his two little daughters, to
whom he knew she never could have been a competent in-
structress or mother. And we may conclude that he did
not think riches and beauty were the most important qual-
ifications a wife could possess, because, as soon as decency
would permit, he wrote to ascertain if Elizabeth Brooks
was still at liberty.

“What answer did Elizabeth give?”

She said no! unhesitatingly, as any woman of refinement
and delicacy treated as she had heen, would say.

But Mr. Bennett would not send her answer to his neph-
ew, would not allow that she could decide on so important
a point without first seeing William Forbes. ‘‘I wish my
nephew to visit me,” continued Mr. Bennett, ‘‘and if I send
_ him your rejection he will not come to New Hampshire.
No, no, Elizabeth, we will give him a hearing before we
pronounce his doom.”

William accordingly came. A noble looking man he
was; it seemed that his manly beauty had improved by
years. There was a striking contrast between his appear-
ance and that of Elizabeth. He so large and portly, and

J

4
|
q
{
4
if
2
i é

1828.] Sketches of American Character. 501
his black eyes still as bright, and black hair as glossy as
ever, only around his temples it had grown thinner, and
gave to his ample forehead a more judicial dignity. She
was slender and pale, or rather inclining to yellow; our
villainous climate, cold winter* and rough winds, soon tar-
nish a fair complexion. But then Elizabeth’s countenance
looked so animated and intelligent, that [ reallv beieve Wil-
liam Forbes thought her comely, for he gazed oa her with
the look of a lover regarding a beautiful girl.

That appealing look, or his eloquence, he was said to be
a very eloquent pleader, and doubtless taxed his persuasive
powers in the suit he was urging, finally obtained him the
victory. Elizabeth, however, told Mr. Bennett the day
before she was married, that she should not have consented
to wed Mr. Forbes but for the sake of his children, his lit-
tle girls who, he said, so much needed her care and instruc-
tions. Thus by appealing a little to her professional pride,
for all successful instructors are somewhat proud of their
vocation, the lawyer succeeded, and carried home a sensible
and intelligent woman, and was never afterwards ashamed
to invite his friends to dinner or a party lest they should dis-
cover his wife was a dunce.

Reader, the ‘‘ Sketch” is finished; and I think it proper
to announce it, lest those who read to the end of the article
should pronounce it dull, merely because it is long. What
follows is intended entirely for the ladies; gentlemen, there-
fore, will please to pass it over. Gentlemen never indulge
their curiosity about the forbidden, so I feel perfectly se-
cure they will not read the next three pages. But the ladies
must read them.

In the preface to the Village Schoolmistress were some
remarks which, either from their novelty, or the ambiguous
manner in which they were expressed, were not, I fear, un-
derstood in the sense intended. Perhaps the best method
to state the objections urged against the sentiments in that
Sketch, and the explanations I would wish to make, will
be by the introduction of extracts from two letters—the
first written by a lady, a friend of mine, the second my an-
swer to her letter.

t
By
Ay
?
£
4
¥
t
:
4
|
|
|
|
|
'

502 Sketches of American Character. [ Nov.

FIRST EXTRACT.

‘There are certain heretical sentiments in your last Sketch,
as some think.

‘What,’ inquired a good lady of my acquaintance, ‘ does
Mrs. Hale say that all we are made for is to please the men,
and all we care for is to get married?’

‘O! no,’ I replied, ‘ but she says that woman was intend-
ed by her Creator as a ‘‘ helpmeet”’ for man, and that her
ambition is to marry well—to which you will assent I hope.’

‘Not her highest ambition’ said she.

But we will let that good lady pass+And let me say that
I read your last number with more than ordinary delight.
I thought your Sketch characterized by a more than
usual degree of depth, originality and boldness—it was full
of reflections that made the reader think. But while I per-
fectly agree with you, that the aim of woman should be,
to qualify herself to discharge the duties of a daughter,
wife, mother,—and that this would necessarily produce a
similarity of ‘‘thought and feeling, and consequently charac-
ter,’’—still I cannot assent to your remark, that manners
is the only essential difference in the character of women.
I think there is a great diversity. To be sure there are no
women who make Law, Physic or Theology their calling;
—but I know Physicians and Thelogians among them,—
and I would engage, for every variety of male character in
your ‘Sketches’ to match you with a lady.

One of the severest remarks made by that ‘ little crooked
thing,’ that great libeller of our sex, Pope, was, that the
only difference in woman arose from complexion,—that we
were ‘ best distinguished by black, brown, or fair.’ Upon
the whole, I am not sure but what I like Pope’s distinction
best—his is natural, yours’ artificial.”

THE ANSWER.

‘‘[ find you did not comprehend my meaning in the
peemiory remarks to the ‘ Village Schoolmistress,’ and I
regret that you did not, because I think, could I explain
my meaning and motives intelligibly, you would agree

¢

WwW
Ww
tl
| al
ti
|
it
q is
(tl
| a
|
|
|
r
(
|
4
|

1828. | Sketches of American Character. 503

with me in opinions and principles. I did not intend to be
understood that there was no difference in the minds of
women. I believe, in the original conformation of soul,
there exists as much dissimilarity among women as men—
and the reason that the original capacity is not more dis-
tinctly developed and displayed, is wholly to be attributed
to the situation of the female sex. There is for them but
one pursuit. Of what use is it for us to deny the fact, that
it is in the marriage establishment only, that woman seeks
her happiness and expects her importance, when all history
and our own observation, confirm it to be the truth. It
is not so with men,—they have more than one medium
through which to seek for fortune, fame and happiness,
and that is, in my opinion, the sole reason of their superi-
ority of mind over us. How I do wish women to be sen-
sible of this, and endeavor to find or make an employment,
consistent with propriety—that must never be relinquished;
—which would give to their minds strength and dignity,
that strength and dignity which is acquired from exertion
and self-dependence. But while women imagine they are
gaining importance, and are flattered with those compli-
ments on their intellectual progress, which the gentlemen
sometimes deign to bestow, they seem perfectly unconscious
that they have not made one step of advancement in the scale
af society, or at least, they are only engaged in the same
occupations, namely, that of canvassing fashions and super-
intending household affairs, that occupied the sex a thou-
sand years ago. I do not say women have not more learn-
ing, that they do not read more, but pray tell me what dif-
ference this has created in their pursuits? except to make
them less useful—because they now, many of them, think
that to ‘work with their hands’ is disgraceful for ladies,
and yet there is no employment provided, in which they
can exercise their talents and learning advantageously—or
indeed, at all. I would rouse them from this supineness,
—I would have them seek some employment, have some
aim that will, by giving energy to their minds, and the
prospect of an honorable independence, should they choose
to continue single, make them less dependent on marriage
as the means of support.

i
3
i 4
|
|
]
|
]
|
|
|
i
|
3 By
|
4
‘
Ye.
.
|
}
4 +
4

504 Sketches of American Character. [ Nov.

hey will then really improve, because their minds will
“have a wider circle in which to move and act. Women
might succeed in many of the fine arts; but still, I think
the business of instruction, ihe one best fitted to their cha-
racter, to the situation, which they must, indeed, ought to
hold in society, because it was evidently assigned them by
their Creator. Jt was for these reasons I urged upon their
consideration the importance of school-keeping.

You may be assured I am a true woman, and that I shall
seek io promote the happiness and the best interests of my
sex; but I do not think that happiness, or those interests
will be advanced by flattering women that they are angels,
or that they have, as yet, much claim to a mental equality
with men, if equality consist in the exertion of mind. We
have reason, my dear friend, but we seldom use it; we
might about as well be guided by instinct. We proceed
day after day, and year after year in the same routine, with-
out exhibiting one original idea. All new discoveries and
inventions are made by the men; even the chemical com-
binations in cookery, and their causes are unknown to al-
most every female, to those who have cooked all their
days. We do not think—there is the fault of our educa-
tion—we are not taught by necessity,—the necessity that
arises to men in their diversified pursuits,—to reflect.”

THE bird that soars on joyous wing

Must stoop to earth when darkness reigns ;
The flowers that gem the breast of spring,
Fade when the frost comes o’er the plains :
And thus gay Fancy droops her flight,
Beneath affliction’s starless night ;

And thus, sweet Hope, thy flowers are lost,
Chilled by neglect’s unkindly frost.

4
|
£
3
|
a
i
og
q
4
ia
i
| |
»
4
i
it

1828. |

Stanzas.

STANZAS

wedding day.

Sister, this rose, so faded now,

Was once as bright and gay,

As garlands wreathed for beauty’s brow,
On the joyous nuptial day ;

When Hope’s bright sunlight gilds the mind
With dreams of bliss—with joys refined.

I watched its little bud unfold,

*T was the first rose of spring ;

And with its petals half unroll’d

It was a lovely thing.

No diamond in a crown that glows,
Was brighter than my half blown rose.

And, Sister, at thy bridal hour,

A full blown rose it grew,

And then I thought my pretty flower

An emblem was of you ;—

*T was pure, and blushing, sweet and fair—
As maidens at the altar are.

And then I mourned a thing so bright
Should ever fade and die.

To sunniest hours there comes a night,
Age dims the clearest eye.

Alas !—how withered, shrunk and sear,
Doth this, once beauteous, rose appear.

And so ephemeral is life,

Days fleet like hours away ;

E’en youth, with bloom and beauty rife,
In years will soon decay ;

And Time’s swift courier, Age, will blight
The red blush on thy cheek so bright.

And then with this poor withered rose
Again thou wilt compare,—

But in thy breast immortal, glows

A soul even Time shall spare—
Which in eternal youth shall bloom,
Unscathed ’mid desolation’s gloom !

I.—No. XI. 64

For my Sister, Mrs. 4. C. B., with a withered Rose, which bloomed on her

B.

li
| | 505
i
3 i
4
3
aes:
4
H 7
i
|
q 4
3 BH F
ay

506 To the Editor of the Ladies’ Magazine. [Nov.

To the Editor of the Ladies’ Magazine.

I know as good a story about an Album as the one you
have related in the last number. The only difference is,
yours has the best telling, and the best ending—because it
ends in matrimony; nevertheless, mine will in some meas-
ure atone for these deficiencies on the score of truth, a most
important desideratum in the formation of a good story—as
nothing can be strictly good without being strictly true.

Not many years ago, in ‘‘ Penn’s throng’d city,” a young
lady by the name of Martha, got up one of those ‘‘ moroc-
co-covered, gilt-edged receptacles of rhyme and rhapsody,”
and sent it out to be filled. Every gentleman of her
acquaintance, and every gentleman who was not of her ac-
quaintance, provided he stood high in public estimation,
and could write a neat hand, was invited ‘“‘to record the
initials of his name,”’ which the fair solicitor knew would
be preceded by an original rhapsody, for such was the de-
sign of the book, as he could see for himself. There was
a ‘¢sonnet to Martha’s black eyes,” signed O. S.—another
*¢ To Martha’s heart,” signed B. D.—an acrostic on her
name, signed F. L.—An offer of his heart and hand—
Anonymous—together with numberless rhapsodic effusions
and affecting farewells, addressed ‘* To Martha,” and bear-
ing the signatures of living men. I have often thought
Albums a species of duelling, and have no doubt but many
a brainless wight has been frightened from the society of
ladies within the last ten years, merely because he could
not stand the challenge of an Album. False honor, as in
the case of duelling, seemed to brand the fellow with the
epithets of coward and fool, who could have the effrontery
to refuse ‘‘to record his initials” in a gilt-edged book.
Besides, what gentleman could refuse the request of ‘‘ beau-
ty” almost ‘‘in tears.” He does not possess ‘‘ one drop of
heaven’s sweet mercy” who could withstand the entreaty.
Therefore, in addition to the epithets of coward and fool.
he must bear that of savage, if he barbarously refuse to
fight—that is—to defend his honor by accepting the chal-
lenge, and giving vent toa violent paroxysm of feigned rhap-

]

™m

|

—
a = ¢
+
{ 4
4
H
iy
t
4
(
5
]
|
{ %
+
af
}
4
3
of
ff

1828.] To the Editor of the Ladies’ Magazine. 507

sody—at best fulsome flattery, that ought to shock the deli-
cacy of every lady, although conveyed to her ear under a
‘* morocco cover.” But most happily for the true honor
of ladies and gentlemen, the Album mania has subsided.
There seems to be, it is true, a few scattering remains—here
and there a case occurs—but the disorder has assumed a
milder and less terrific form; and no doubt, from the
change which has taken place in the symptoms of the re-
maining few, the happiest effects may result, as in the case
you have named. Lest, however, there should be found
some of the old stamp, I will finish the story of Martha’s
Album. I said she was young—I said it not because she
looked young—but because every lady who keeps a “ re-
ceptacle of rhyme and rhapsody,” wishes to look very
young. She might have been twenty—she might have
been forty. I never heard her tell her age—and what
right has a historian like me who has pledged his truth, to
guess on a subject of such delicacy. She had beautiful
black eyes—but I shall not say whether her hair was black
or white—or an uncivil mixture of both. Certain it is
however, there were no sonnets addressed to her ‘‘ Raven
Locks,” or her ‘‘ Jet Black Hair’”—although her eyes were
extolled by every poetic name which could possibly convey
the idea of palpable, undeniable black.

The Album was nearly filled with ‘“‘rhyme and rhapso-
dy”—and the dying sigh of many a hero—and the farewell
tear of many a rejected lover—shone conspicious there.
Many were the proofs of bravery which should resound to
coming ages the courage of man! more glorious than to
have saved a nation, because he had proved his prowess by
his own invincible right hand! The Album had just re-
turned from one of its rhapsodic excursions, richly laden
like the bee to its hive—what is sweeter, than flattery be-
lieved 2

And my heroine was inhaling anew its delicious sweets,
when the General Assembly convened to discuss affairs
of the church, as is their wont to do every spring. Among
other good men who were sent on this heavenly embassy,
was a clergyman from “the land of steady habits.”

*

|
4
4 {
i ay
~
4
|
4E
:

508 The Bride’s Soliloquy. [ Nov.

Whether he wrote an uncommon neat hand—or whether
he stood uncommonly high in public estimation——-whether
he had ever accepted a challenge, or had ever written a
rhyme or rhapsody—is left untold. This much however
is revealed to his everlasting praise. When he was chal-
lenged (alias solicited) by the ‘‘ dark eyed maid” to record
his initials, he took the ‘gilt-edged, morocco-covered
book” home to his lodgings, and wrote—not a word of
rhyme or rhapsody or farewell. _ But nobly supporting the
sacred character of his heavenly mission, which had bound
him by solemn covenant to administer wholesome reproof,
to reclaim if possible deluded souls, and point out to them
the strait and narrow way—he wrote simply the chapter
and verse of a text of scripture—signed his initials and sent
home the book, leaving my heroine to search out the text—

as I must do by my readers. It was Luke—10 :—41, 42
* * * * * *

It is my candid opinion that the happy revolution in the
Album world may date its era from that meeting of the
General Assembly.

Gt

THE BRIDE’S SOLILOQUY.

I MUST o’ercome this sadness !—Though I’ve left
For aye, a happy home ; a father’s arms,
A mother’s more than love, kind brothers too,
And sisters most affectionate and dear :
For if I weep, my husband’s eyes are on me
With such a mournful look, [’tis almost sorrow,]
As if he thought ’twas he had made me wretched,
And that I wept for very desolation,
Because he’d torn me from my childhood’s haunts,
From all my youth’s companions, and the friends
Whose sympathies were echoes of mine own,
In joy or sorrow. Oh, that sadden’d look !
1t breaks my heart, and bids me summon back
The truant gaiety, whose loss it mourns.

4
¥
. 4
4 3
a 4
4
|
|
|
4
3
;
i
q
q
7

1828, | Woman’s Constancy.

If, for a time, I gather animation,
And chat with life and glee, as I was wont
In my now far off home, in joyous days,
How that dear face lights up with grateful smiles ;
Kind looks beam on me with so sweet expression,
As thanking me that I essay to enjoy
The passing hour, and lure the wanderer happiness :
Ah, what resolves those looks are conjuring !
I then forswear all sorrow—vow, that sadness
Ne’er shall again usurp ascendancy ;
But I will ever wear a sunny brow,
And thus will make kind looks perpetual.
Oh, Heaven avert! But should the time e’er come,
When a fair brow hath lost its potency,
I’ll waken memory of by-gone days,
Remind him of these happy hours that fleet

So swiftly by, they scarce give time to note them.

WOMAN’S CONSTANCY.

I might with propriety adopt the title of ‘‘a true story;”
but I find the world pays little regard to names. What-
ever is too refined for the fashionable, too generous for the
selfish, too spiritual for the worldling, will be termed fic-
tion. "However, my story is true, absolutely and essentially
true; and I could name as many living persons as the law re-
quires to substantiate a fact, as evidences of its truth. But
I think such a proceeding unnecessary. The narrative will
carry its own conviction. It portrays woman as she is, con-
stant ‘even unto death.” And man—But I will tell the story.

During the last war between England and America, there
lived, in. a town on the sea- -coast, an old man who had
‘¢ Jephtha’s treasure—one fair daughter and no more.” A
sweet girl she was, that pretty Mary—-sung like a lark,
(a comparison, by the way, not very appropriate where

=

509
‘
iH
q
4
: ia
ag
4
by re
4
z
|
|

510 , Woman’s Constancy. [Nov.

there are no larks) was industrious as a bee, as lively as a
swallow, and tender hearted as a pigeon. She fell in love,
as such sweet girls are very apt to do, with one who was,
if not beneath her in condition, very unpleasing to her fa-
ther. The young man beat a drum, and the old man de-
tested the noise of a drum; the young man enlisted as a
soldier, and the old man protested his daughter should not
wed a soldier—so the lovers were separated.

But before they parted, they mutually breathed a solemn
vow to each other, that, if they were not permitted to mar-
ry together, they would not live. Only think what chi-
valric affection that was, for this ‘‘common-place age.” I
do not know how long their period of trial was to last;
but the hapless Mary ‘“ pined in thought.” Her lover had
marched ‘over the hills and far away;” her father was
silent and stern, and she had no companion but her own sad
thoughts. Her father lived in a wild, lonely place. He
had no household, save his daughter. He had no books.
Novels may be decried, and charged with the sin of occupy-
ing precious time, and corrupting the imaginations of the
young; but still they have often the “spell of power” to
charm the desolate-hearted from the contemplation of their
sorrows. Iam not the champion of novels; yet I think it
far better a silly, love-sick girl should read novels, than
continually think of her absent swain, or talk of her friend’s
cruelty and her own disappointment. But poor Mary had
no novels to read, and she thought of her drummer from
morning till night, and then from night till morning—ex-
cept just when she happened to be asleep—even then he
was not absent from her fancy. She dreamed of him, and
dreamed he was dead; and she became impressed with
the duty of committing suicide. She had promised; and
her love and integrity alike demanded the sacrifice. She
wrote a farewell letter to her lover, detailing all her agonies
and the cruelty of her father; took the letter in her hand,
and sought the sea shore. She probably never heard of
Sappho, but similar feelings will inspire similar sentiments.
No doubt but the tumult in the heart of that lowly lass was as
tender, as terrible, as melting and melancholy, as that which
inspired the immortal strains of the Lesbian’s love-harp. The

3
|
|}
i 3
:
| i
=
|
&
|
v
|
{
|
L +f
|
|

1828. } Fancy Sketches. _ 511

catastrophe of the Plymouth maiden was as tragical as hers
of Mitylene. When the tide ebbed, within a little cove
was discovered the lifeless body of Mary. She was sitting,
supported by a projecting rock, upright; her hair, nearly
dried by the wind, floated over her shoulders; and in her
hands, pressed closely together on her bosom, was the let-
ter to her lover. Was she not constant?

What became of her drummer? Did he too, in despair—
to use the lover’s vein—snatch the fatal shears from the
hand of the Fates, and cut short the thread of his own ex-
istence? Man, it is said, never loves like woman, with
his whole heart. The statesman must devote his thoughts
to the nation or his party—the merchant is engaged by the
details of commerce and the desire of wealth—the sailor
has a sweet-heart in every port, and the soldier ‘‘ changes
mistresses as he changes garrisons.”” Never should a young
woman flatter herself, that if she commits suicide, her swain
will die also. Phaon did not. The drummer did not.
Before the treaty of Ghent was known in the United States,
he had negotiated a treaty for himself—he was married.

: Was he not false?
} Yet where is the person of sense and good principles, but
e will commend the falsehood rather than the constancy?

Let every romantic young lady who reads this story, grave
i it on her mind, that absurdities and sins can never be at-
: toned for, by pleading wounded sensibility, disappointed
: affection, or even that devoted, exalted, yet sometimes dan-
gerously indulged feeling—the pride of constancy!

4 FANCY SKETCHES.
Man superior, walks 4
: Amid the glad Creation, musing praise,

And looking lively gratitude.”

Thomson.

Oh! come, ye viewless spirits, who inhabit
Earth’s shady groves, or caverns of the deep;

§
|
|
|
« pie
4
4
cf
bad
4
Z ay
7

512

Fancy Sketches.

And ye light forms who wing in upper space
Your joyous flights upon the moon’s pale beam,
Or on your native smiling star-rays sport

In dancings fairy-like—come breathe o’er me
Your inspirations sweet! Ye come, ye come,

I feel the rapt, the kindled spirit glow,

Fann’d into flame by your bright rainbow wings ;
I feel the charm of beauty on my soul,

As softest music, from AXolian harps,

On the delighted ear—I feel entranced

Mid the bright things and beautiful which deck
The shrine where nature shows “ diviner skill” —
The radiant garniture of earth and Heaven !

I love to stray, fair Cuba, o’er thy hills,
Regaling on the fragrant breathing Lime,

And from the Orange, and the Citron tree,
Drinking deliciousness at every step ;—

Or in the by-paths of thy glorious groves

To linger, listening, while from every bough,
Nature, thy happiest, brightest choristers,

Tune their sweet voices to the hymns of love—
Or saunter by thy soft entrancing streams,

And pass unheeded the dull hours away

In intellectual and delicious dreams.

Then the high, pure and nobler qualities

Of nature, free, unfettered, soar from things

Of time and sense, revelling proud and high
Through the bright, airy palaces of fancy !

I love to wander at the thoughtful hour

When night puts on her brightest diadem ;
When the clear moon is pouring over earth

A flood of glory; then I love to gaze

Upon her pensive face, and think she stoops
And listens to my soul-breathed orisons

At nature’s shrine. There is a language, mute
Tho’ eloquent, in her mild beaming look,
Lauding the goodness of creation’s God !

Then round the deep, blue vault of heaven I turn
My wandering eye and scan those sparkling gems,
And think they send out brighter gleams for me,
And fancy snatches, at sweet intervals,

Of silvery flowing melody, as soft

As gently falling founts in Paradise !

[ Nov.

be.
j
i@
if
.
|
|
i
|
d
aul
|

1828. | Confessions of a Husband.

513
Or as the thrilling of a love-touched harp,
Whose music flows from out a flowery dell
Across the bosom of some breezy lake;
While ripplings catch the sound, and, mingling in,
Kiss the chained ear and charm the willing soul.
Such is the song of gladuess round the throne
Of Him, who brought from chaos at a word,
This bright, this beautiful creation, Earth !—
And then I’ve marked some falling star drop down
The opal vault and lose itself in darkness,
And felt my spirit leaping from its bounds
To catch the sinking ray ere quenched forever ;—
And mused how like it was to erring spirit,
From realms of glory banished, blighted, lost !
Fancy, how lofty thy imaginings !
The mind, untrammelled by companionship,
Soars high and wide as space illimitable !
And seeks and drinks, from every fount of thought,
Sweet draughts and deep of intellectual joy.
HENRY.
Matanzas, Aug. 1828.

To the Editor of the Ladies’ Magazine.

Madam—I am a maiden lady, somewhat advanced in
ears ; and have so prudently demeaned myself, during my
onely pilgrimage, that I am not unfrequently the chosen
confidant of my married acquaintance. I enclose you a

letter, recently received from a distant relative, whose wife,
I know, sometimes looks into the Ladies’ Magazine. It
is evidently written under the influence of strong feeling :
and in this age of confessions, may properly be termed,—

CONFESSIONS OF A HUSBAND.

Dear Madam—Do you recollect an interesting conver-
sation in your little parlor, a few weeks previous to my
VOL. I.—NO. XI. 65

4
+
‘
%
q
4
|
4
4
4
j
:

514 Confessions of a Husband. [Nov.

marriage ? Circumstances have deeply impressed it upon
| | my memory—and believe me, nothing but imperious
ig necessity, could now wring from me the humiliating con-
1 fession, that your predictions have all proved true. It is
t with shame and regret I own, that I have no companion
ig in my wife—that my children have no instructress in their
Gg mother. Yet I will not blame her. Her education, which
ig I thought good, was faulty, and superficial in the extreme.
+ | There must have been radical defects in my own too ; or
I could not have been so indifferent to the real value of her
a acquirements. For the ten years of our marriage, J have
ia kept pace with the world :—she has remained stationary,
| , absorbed in domestic concerns, in dressing and visiting,
q and I now feel, and deplore the difference. Yet she has
| amiable, and estimable qualities, and I often think how
well I could love her ; if—————but no more of myself.
With the best intentions, and the warmest wishes for the
welfare of her children, she has adopted a code of govern-
| ment for them ; so coercive and restrictive in its operation,
that if they have but a common share of intelligence, and
| ‘ animal spirits, they cannot fail of daily incurring its penal-
a ties. You know how instinctively I recoil from sights
| and sounds of animal suffering. I could as soon pinch or
burn, or inflict any other animal torture upon a child, as
i@ to lacerate its little body with stripes.
, It isin vain that I ask her, by what process it is she
expects that the application of brute force willimprove the
moral qualities of her child? Jn vain I assure her, that
stripes, and blows, engender ten bad passions, where they
expel one. Equally in vain, that I tell her, that children
: early emancipate themselves from the control of a mother,
whose influence is not a moral influence ; and like that of
angels, rather felt than seen. To all this, her invariable
_ answer is, ‘‘spare the rod, and spoil the child.”
7 We are the slaves of association, and of prejudice. [|
@ suppose that in early life, my wife as closely associated
the idea of Solomon’s rod with that of a real birch, or maple
; stick, as I did, the idea of a learned woman, with that of
a masculine virago.

t

|
if
—
|
@

1828. Confessions of a Husband. 515

‘Tf I marry a Bleu, where will be my security, that she
will not turn out an Authoress ?” said I in the conversation
to which I alluded. Dear Madam, I renounce all my
former prejudices—disavow all that I once said on the
subject of female learning. Were I to choose, I would
have the mother of my children, learned indeed, in the
philosophy of the human mind. Our only system then
would be, that of systematically watching indications of
nature as they arise, and managing accordingly. It is
impossible for a father to interfere to advantage, in the
management of young children. Nature seems to have
thrown them solely into the arms of their mother, for pro-
tection and instruction.

My wife is extremely solicitous for the mental improve-
ment of her children ; but unhappily, knows no way of
bringing it about, but by chaining them a given time to
their books. On my return home, when the business of
the day is done— instead of finding my children, with in-
telligent and happy faces, talking with their mother,
and receiving the elements of knowledge from her lips,
I find them poring over their lessons with wearied and
harrassed looks ; their memories beyond all measure bur-
dened at the expense of their understandings. It really
pains my feelings, to see them all brighten up at my entrance,
and fly to me for assistance. My wife too looks pleased
when I can devote an hour to their instruction, and really
seems to feel a degree of pride, that she has kept her wo-
manly station, and knows so much less than I do.

The other day, my little boy threw the horse on which he
had been riding, before the fire. It was of green wood—-
and he stood watching, with great apparent interest, the
pretty canal of sap that flowed from it upon the polished
hearth. His mother ordered him to take it up. He reso-
lutely refused—persisted in refusing—and of course, was
whipped till he obeyed.

‘¢ Why my dear,” said I, ‘‘did you not interest your-
self about the saptoo? You never could have a better
opportunity of explaining to him the effect of heat, and

cold, upon the sap of trees, and on fluids in general. His

if
|
q
|
|
4
q
ia
:

516 To Rosabelle. [ Nov.

curiosity would have been soon gratified ; and he would
have taken the stick up willingly when you desired him.
Had you done so,” continued I, ‘* you would have given
him no chance of disobeying you ;—you would have taken
up less time than you did in whipping him—and you
would have given him something to ink of, that would,
perhaps, have kept him out of fresh mischief.” But—my
wife is no philosopher—and the first duty of a child is
obedience.

ou see by what I have written, that Justice is the house-
hold virtue most valued here. But she is unhappily armed
only with her sword. Do you, Madam, come among us,
and endeavor to restore her balance.”

The rest of the letter principally concerned myself.
Should you think proper to insert it in your Magazine, the
Lady in question might, perhaps, find a reason for the
silence in her husband, of which she has often complained.

E. W. B.
TO ROSABELLE.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve !
‘ She loves me best when e’er I sing
The songs that make her grieve !
Coleridge.

Pure-hearted as a buried pearl
Within a crimson shell,

A dark eyed and a radiant girl
Art thou, my K>sabelle—

Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow
And floats before thine eyes;

As meek and pure as doves art thou,
Or creatures of the skies.

;
‘
all
q
q
4
i
4
a
f
‘
|
og

Reflections.

Thy mild looks are all eloquent,
Thy bright ones free and glad,
Like glances from a pleiad sent—
Thy sad ones sweetly sad—
And when a tear is in thine eye,
To witch with sorrow’s spell;

Oh none may idly pass thee by,
My own sweet Rosabelle.

I think of thee when daylight pours
Her glances thro’ the sky,

And then with thee my spirit soars
Among the things on high.

Thou art an angel by my side,
To earth I bid farewell,

And every dream of pomp and pride—
To all, but Rosabelle.

Bright dreams attend thee, gentle one,
The brightest and the best ;

For sorrow scarce can fal! upon
A maid so purely blest.

And when death’s shadows round thee swell
And dim thy starry eyes,

Oh may’st thou be, my Rosabelle,
A spirit of the skies.

Philadelphia.

REFLECTIONS.

In perusing the pages of your valuable work, I have met
with nothing which interested me more than the laconic
productions of your friend A. Mist. He is evidently a
man of wisdom; and so far from wishing you to discontinue
his “scraps,” as you have threatened to do in favor of
some ‘‘six paged” rival, I entreat, as a faithful reader of
the Ladies’ Magazine, that you will continue your researches
from the Port-Folio. I have pictured it in my mind’s eye,

.
1828. |
i
ig
+
R. M.
=
a
:
fi
og
ER
EBS
4
ii

518 Reflections. [Nov.

as a large, bulky, oldfashioned article, secured at each end
by substantial buck-skin, and exhibiting an exterior like
the Port-Folio of Solon the wise; which, who could be-
hold, and not feel an irresistible desire to explore the in-
terior! Millions of fragments—‘‘odds and ends”—‘“‘shreds
and patches,” or scraps, as you think proper to call them—
bits of paper, at all events. Some carefully folded in the
centre—some transversely—some at the corners—-and others
compressed into numberless zigzag folds, to suit the exi-
gences of time and place,—others again, grievously blotted
and defaced, the natural effects of ‘“‘ midnight oil” and bad
pens,—but all teeming with wholesome precepts, the bet-
ter for being conveyed in short, concise sentences, and
through the medium too, of the Ladies’ Magazine.

I have, all my life, been a warm admirer of Eastern lite-
rature, and of those ‘“‘good old times,” when sages wrote
with the view only to instruct; and when men read only
to be instructed—when it was praise enough, that wisdom
graced each period, and books were prized not so much for
quantity as quality.

The didactic writings of the ancient Hebrews, Grecians

and Romans, were the delight of my childhood. They

** Charm’d me young, no longer young, I find
Of power to charm me still.”’

The proverbs of Solomon are a happy specimen of sen-
tentious precepts. The i»sest mind in existence, if it could
be elevated to read and comprehend them, would be in
love with virtue. There is something so forcible in a con-
cise, well turned period, especially if it belong to the di-
dactic, that it seldom fails to carry its own conviction along
with it. ‘*Proverbs,” says an ingenious writer, ‘‘are short
sentences founded on truth, and extracted from the experi-
ence and speculation of ancient sages.”’ I sincerely wish it
was fashionable in this book-making age to write proverbs.

Your worthy friend Mr. Mist, I rejoice to say, has ap-
proached as near to it as the present refined state of letters
will allow. I rejoice too, that he has made you the almoner

~ of his store-house. How much you may benefit the world!

No doubt it contains some of his finest touches,—perhaps
his whole stock of wisdom is condensed within the narrow

|
|
;
4a |
|
q
lm |
|
—
af

1828 | Children at their Mother’s Grave. 519

compass of its walls. His poetry is short, like his prose;
yet nevertheless, it wears nature’s richest livery, and af-
fords ample testimony that, though a philosopher, he is no
stoic. And if he never could spin out a story to the pre-
scribed length of six hundred pages, there lives at least one
passionate admirer of his modest, unassuming worth,—one,
who could at any time prefer swallowing half a dozen
spoonfulls of his superfine flour, to as many hundred bush-
els of fashionable unsifted—* husks and all.”’

P.S. If any of my remarks appear too cynical, or my
praises of your laconic friend too enthusiastic, you will
acireg impute it to my late exhaustion of patience, from

aving toiled through forty pages of a modern “two
volumed” work, without being able to form the least sur-
mise of the author’s drift—if he had any,—or whether he
was not writing, merely to add another senseless tone to the

countless numbers already in circulation.

CHILDREN AT THEIR MOTHER’S GRAVE.

THEY stand within the village ground,
Where their mother’s ashes sleep ;

Nor wakes she from her dream profound,
To listen while her children weep.

In their loveliness alone,
They, beneath the cypress’ shade,
Stand and gaze upon the stone,
Below which all their world is laid.

Throbs each little heart, as tells
Memory of ihe moments fled,

And the tide of sorrow swells
As they call upon the dead.

a,
Ag
if 4

3 2 %
if

'

3

:

}

4

4

}

4

Sonnet.

They think in what sweet words of prayer,
She look’d up for ONE to bless :

**Take them, Saviour! to thy care—

Shielder of the motherless.”’

They remember how her cheek
Wax’d colder still as death stole on ;

And when they thought she soon would speak

And found her spirit gone—

How beautifully on that brow
Sat the quiet of the Bless’d!

They knew she was an angel now,

Soaring to her holy rest.

On her monument they gaze,
And weep—then look to heaven away,

And their clasped hands they raise;

Oh God! thou hears’t when orphans pray.

TAPPAN.

SONNET.
On a Sleeping Cupid.

Ah! would that J had ever thus have found
The little roguish, rosy boy, asleep;
I would have broken each shaft—and left him bound
Safe, with his bow-string—on some rugged steep;
That waking from his mischievous dreams, he might
Have met the fate he merits—died from fright.
Mark how the little sleeping urchin smiles,
Dimpling his pretty cheeks—mark how his lips
Move, pouting playfully—new toils and wiles
He’s dreaming of—perchance in fancy sips
The dewy freshness now—as oftentime,
From beauty’s blossomed lip ;—his ringlets shine
With golden lustre ;—soft—I’ll bind him now—
But—if I do—will Mary keep her vow?

HENRY.

520 [Nov.

nS

LITERARY NOTICES.

“ATLANTIC SOUVENIR—1829.” The character of this work, which has now
reached its fourth volume, is well known to the reading public; nothing need be said
on that subject, excepting that this volume fully sustains the credit of its predeces-
sors. ‘‘Comparisons are odious’’—so we shall not indulge them in reference to the
annual lately published in this city, and the Souvenir; but we will say that it is to
be regretted, the publishers of the latter do not adopt a different style of binding.
The manner is beautiful to be sure, but looks so frail in its beauty, that we fear to
turn over the leaves lest some injury should ensue to the fine cover.

The engravings are splendid—yet we felt something like a disappointment that
scenes in our own country and from our own history, should not more frequently
be introduced and portrayed. Our American Annuals derive much of their interest,
from the belief that they are fostering and elevating the literary taste of our people,
drawing forth, and displaying the talents of our artists, and the genius of our writers.
Why not add the crowning grace, that they shall also diffuse the knowledge of our
history, of the curidsities of our country, of the peculiarities of our character, ari-
sing from the republican simplicity of our government, as contrasted with the corrupt
institutions of the old world—and thus foster the love of country, the patriotism that
in a free land, is so necessary to be diffused and cherished? To be respected as
Americans, we must be proud of being Americans. But to return to the engravings,
—** Love The Unwelcome Guest,’’—and ‘* The Contented Captive,”
are all of them, finely executed. “We did wish however, that in contrast with the
picture of the Turkish Slave, chanting the joys of her sensual bondage to her lord,
had been introduced the christian wife, free in her constancy and affection to her
husband, nurturing and teaching her children, in the high hope that they will prove
blessings and ornaments to their country, and true worshippers of the true God.
There is the perfection of the female character:—and it cannot be found among slaves.

We think highly of the literary portion of the work. ‘The Methodists’ Story”
is an excellent production, written with the power and pathos of exalted genius, of
deep observation, and of rational piety.

‘* Naratausk”’ embraces a similarity of scene and very nearly of plot, with ** The
Church in the Wilderness,’ which appeared in the ‘‘ Legendary.”” Father Ralle
seems in a fair way of obtaining that fame for piety and disinterested benevolence,
which he undoubtedly deserved: and we are glad to see American writers doing
justice to the Indian character, though at the expense of our own ancestors. The
story is very well told: the better, as there are but few attempts to introduce the pe-
culiar eloquence of the red men, which so rarely proves successful. ‘* The Glove”

VOL. I.—NO. XI. 66

a

4
ag
¢
=
=
-
4
$5
“Ty
an
hi.
= 4
} |
4q
;
4

522 Literary Notices. [Nov.

displays some knowledge of Italian literature, and relates an old story in a very
clever manner.

“*Un Faineant” and “ Benhadar,””—very dissimilar productions, yet both by the
same hand or head. J. H. Paulding has certainly exerted his variety of talent, and
succeeded well both in the humorous and the horrible. But we think the first story
will have the most admirers.

“‘A Tale of Poictiers.”—Chivalric enough. Knight and squire, helmet, spear
and battle axe, are marshalled forth in the array; and then there is described the ‘‘lady
love,” so stately, so tender, so indispensable in those days of mailed warriors.
Ah! well may the author exclaim, that ‘we are in this age, poor indeed in those
incidents which grace the page of romance.” But to confess the truth, we do not
regret this poverty of romantic incident. And would not the writer of the stirring
tale of Poictiers, prefer studying Froissart to the storming of Meaux ?

** The Catholic”—This is a well told story, and strikingly delineates some of the
peculiar features of our early history.

**The Lady of Ruthven”—So good we should like to extract it, because of the
**meaning and the moral.”’ It will teach us to reflect that—

** There’s not that work
Of careful nature or of cunning art,
How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be,
But falls in time to ruin.”

“The Emigrant’s Daughter’’—Pretty good, but Wm. Penn Smith would have
done better had he not attempted so much. One wooing is quite sufficient for a
story of forty pages.

** Esmeraida’’—Very gay and very good. The name of Godfrey Wallace as a
writer, we never met before, but hope we shall meet it again.

“The Islands of the Pacific’’—A tender and touching story. The melancholy
catastrophe is however anticipated by the manner of the writer; the death of the
lovers at the precise period, seems one of those events which we are sensible must
occur, which is for the best, and to which it is oar duty to be reconciled. The story
is probably fiction, yet are the characters of truth so stamped upon its features, that
it is difficult to doubt of its veracity. ‘This, we think, is a very decided proof of the
talents of the writer. .

We have now looked over all the prose, and commend it all. Not that we think
it faultless,—but as we do not profess to write criticisms in the critical acceptation
of that learned word, but merely notices of books, we may be permitted to name the
beauties, and leave to others, better skilled in the science of carping, to note the
faults of authors ;—except the sins should be in morals. Female writers ought pe-
culiarly to be guardians of morals in literature, but to criticise on style, or cut up
books with the keen dissecting knife of ridicule, or triumph in the superior wit or
argument, which enables the reviewer to render so copiously absurd and foolish the
efforts of the poor author—or to ‘deal damnation”’ on the dull, does not accord with
the province of woman. There is no sex in talents, in genius—but there is a pro-
priety in character ; and the female who violates that, forgets the respect due to the

a
I

|
\
t
‘
ti
tl

1828. } Literary Notices.

dignity of the woman, (which the men are usually very willing to pay,) without ac-
quiring the courage, the hardihood of mind, which enables the male critic to depend
on himself, and command thé acquiescence of the world in his sentiments, more per-
haps by his own boldness, than the real justness of his opinions. These being our
principles, we shall adhere to them so strictly while commenting on the poetic
articles which occupy quite a large share of the volume, [our soil is truly prolific
of poetry this season,] that we shall name only those on which we can bestow
unhesitating praise. The mediocre, in the muses’ service, is a very thankless and
profitless labor. No comparative degree is permitted. To do well is not accepted.
Those who would gain the laurels of song must do better than well. It is for that
reason, we regret so large a share of poetry is admitted into our annuals.

“Forget Me Not”—F. G. Halleck, is pretty, though not equal to some pro-
ductions we have seen from the pen of the same fine poet.

“Love Asleep’—J. N. Barker, is really witty, and that is what b few
poems, pretending to humor, are. It is well done, and is his best poem—:: the
Souvenir.

“ Seneca Lake”—J. G. Percival—a noble poem, full of thought and beauty—the
sublimity of description.

April” —By Willis—pretty, very pretty.

Then there is ‘ Twilight Thoughts’”—James McHenry—pretty good Souvenir
poetry, as is also “* The Unwelcome Guest,” by the same.

Sonnet to Ambition” —Pickering. ‘This gentleman must be an admirer of the
sonnet manner of writing, which we are not; and therefore, though we think highly
of his genius, we cannot sufficiently appreciate his efforts to judge impartially, when
he confines himself to that species of writing,—no one must judge what they do
not read.

‘* The Philosophy of Whist”—C. W. Thompson—though not very poetic is very
true, and ingenious,—and “‘ Funeral Rites,” by the same, is very beautiful.

‘The Last Days of Youth’”—J. C. Nicholas, possesses the charm of nature
and feeling.

‘<The Egyptian Maiden”—S. S. Boyd. Stanzas”—J. P. Brace,—and The
Snow Flake”—H. F. Gould, are, though different in character, all very pleasing,
and we hope their respective authors will be satisfied with that praise. They did
not attempt the sublime, but they doubtless might, and succeed.

** To the Mocking Bird”—Francis Crosby, Jr.—a very beautiful poem.

Music at Midnight’"—George R. Ingersoll, is excellent.

*«* Woman”—T. Sliddell—we ought to mention, if only for the title,—but it de-

serves it also for its simplicity and truth.

** The Decline of the Year”—I. Mc’Lellan—Though a threadbare subject, is very
good poetry.

We have purposely passed over the articles furnished by female writers, because
we intend to extract from those, that our readers, who may not have the good luck
to see the Souvenir, may see a few of its beauties. We shall insert an article from
the pen of Mrs. Hemans—the queen of European song—and then venture a specimen
er too from our own lady writers. 3

ay
523 | |
mp.
-
4,
\
A
|
ix
|
4
4
4 * =

524

Literary Notices.

SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

WHERE is the sea?—I languish here—
Where is my own blue sea ?

With all its barks of fleet career,
And flags and breezes free 2

I miss that voice of waves—the first
Which woke my childhood’s glee ;

The measured chime—the thundering burst—
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh ! rich your myrtles’ breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be ;

Yet my sick heart within me dies—
Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd’s mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree—

The echoes of my soul are mute—
Where is my own blue sea ?

FELICIA HEMANS.

STANZAS,

Occasioned by hearing a little boy just let loose from school, mocking the bell

as it struck the hour of twelve.

AYE, ring thy shout to the merry hours!
Well may you part in glee—

From their sunny wings they scatter flowers,
And laughing look on thee.

Thy thrilling voice has started tears,—
It brings to mind the day,

When I chased butterflies and years,
And both flew fast away.

Then my glad thoughts were few and free,
They came but to depart,

And did not ask where heaven could be-—
*T was in my little heart.

I since have sought the meteor crown,
Which fame bestows on men—
How gladiy would I throw it down,

To be so gay again? I
But careless joy has gone away, j th

In vain *tis now pursued;

a”

ag
a
ft
| = N
Nov.
|
a |
ad
|
i
|
4
¥

Literary Notices.

Such rainbow glories only stay
Around the simply good.

I know too much to be as blest
As when I was like thee ;
My spirit, reasoned into rest,

Has lost its buoyancy.

Yet still I love the winged hours!
We often met in glee ;

And sometimes, too, are fragrant flowers,
Their farewell gifts to me.

L. M. FRANCIS.

THE DEAF AND DUMB AT PRAYER.

IF sweet it is to see the babe kneel by its mother’s side,

And lisp its brief and holy prayer at hush of eventide ;

And sweet to mark the blooming youth, at morning’s purple ray,
Breathe incense of the heart to Him who ruleth night and day ;

How doth the bosom’s secret pulse, with strong emotion swell,
And tender, pitying thoughts awake, which language may not tell,
When yon mute train, who meekly bow beneath afiliction’s rod,
Whose lip may never speak to man, pour forth the soul to God.

They have no garment for the thought that springs to meet its sire,
No tone to flush the glowing cheek, or fan devotion’s fire ;

Yet surely to the Eternal Throne the spirit’s sigh may soar,

As free as if the wing of speech its hallowed burden bore.

Were language theirs, perchance their tale of treasured grief and fear,
Might cold or unresponsive fall, even on a brother’s ear,

So they may grave upon their minds in youth’s unfolding day,

Tis better to commune with heaven, than with their fellow—clay.

The pomp of words doth sometimes clog the spirit’s upward flight,
But in the silence of their souls is one long Sabbath-light.

If God doth in that temple dwell, their fancied loss is gain,

Ye perfect listeners to His voice! say, is our pity vain?

L. H. SIGOURNEY.

** The future”—By Mrs. Weils, is quite pretty, though not equal to many pro-
ductions of the same gifted woman. We have not space to extract it. One poem
more however, we will give. ‘The author is unknown, but his genius is sufficiently
apparent without the aid of a popular name. ‘The poem is, to our taste and heart,
the very best in the book.

18
28.] 525
é
&
ee
4
-
-
| i
&
3 fj
|
=
q
4

526 Literary Notices.

DEATH,

Lift high the curtain’s drooping fold,
And let the evening sunlight in !

I would not that my heart grew cold
Before its better years begin.

*Tis well that such a holy hour,
So calm and pure, a sinking ray

Should shine into the heart, with power
To charm its darker thoughts away.

The bright young thoughts of early days,
Shall gather in my memory now ;
And not the later cares, whose trace
Is stamped so deeply on my brow ;
What though those days return no more,
The sweet remembrance is not vain,
For heaven is waiting to restore

The childhood of my soul again.

Let no impatient mourners stand
In hollow sadness near my bed ;
But let me rest upon the hand,
And let me hear the gentle tread
Of her whose kindness long ago,
And still unworn away by years,
Hath made my weary eyelids flow
With grateful and admiring tears.

I go—but let no plaintive tone
‘ The moment’s grief of friendship tell,

And let no proud and graven stone
Say where the weary slumbers well.

A few short hours—and then for heaven !
Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ;

For who can mourn the warning given
To call us from a world like this?

‘*FANSHAWE”’—Marsh and Capen. We intended giving a rather long notice of
the above work, which has just been published in this city, and prove the correct-
ness of our favorable opinion respecting it, by several extracts. But ‘ time and
space,”’ those things, which if they may be annihilated, cannot always be command-
ed, are denied at present. We must therefore briefly recommend the book to all
those who wish to encourage the talents of our own writers. But do not depend on
obtaining it for perusal from a circulating library, or from a friend. Purchase it,
reader. There is but one volume, and trust me that is worth placing ia your library.

The time has arrived when our American authors should have something be-
sides empty praise from their countrymen. Not that we wish to see a race of
mere book-worm authors fostered among us. Our institutions and character, de-
mand activity in business; the useful should be preferred before the ornamental ;

| [Nov.
|

|

1828. ] Literary Notices. 527

practical industry before speculative philosophy; reality before romance. But still
the emanations of genius may be appreciated, and a refined taste cultivated among
us, if our people would be as liberal in encouraging the merits of our own writers, if
they would purchase the really excellent productions which depict our own coun-
try, scenes and character, as they do the vapid and worn-out descriptions of Euro-
pean manners, fashions and vices.

To display somewhat of our author’s style and habits of thought, we add one ex-
tract from the work, but shall give no analysis, nor any hint, except that it is worth
buying and reading.

** Fanshawe returned to his chamber that night, and lit his lamp as he had been
wont to do. The books were around him, which had hitherto been to him like those
fabled volumes of magic, from which the reader could not turn away his eye, till
death were the consequence of his studies. But there were unaccustomed thoughts
in his bosom now ; and to these, leaning his head on one of the unopened volumes,
he resigned himself.

‘* He called up in review the years, that, even at his early age, he had spent in
solitary study,—in conversation with the dead,—while he had scorned to mingle
with the living world, or to be actuated by any of its motives. He asked himself to
what purpose was all this destructive labor, and where was the happiness of superior
knowledge. He had climbed but a few steps of a ladder that reached to infinity,—
he had thrown away his life in discovering, that, after a thousand such lives, he
should still know comparatively nothing. He even looked forward with dread—
though once the thought had been dear to him—to the eternity of improvement that
lay before him. It seemed now a weary way, without a resting place, and without
a termination ; and, at that moment, he would have preferred the dreamless sleep of
the brutes that perish, to man’s proudest attribute of immortality.

‘‘Fanshawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected with the world, unconcerned
in its feelings, and uninfluenced by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect he pro-
bably deceived himself. If his inmost heart could have been laid open, there would
have been discovered that dream of undying fame, which, dream as it is, is more
powerful than a thousand realities. But at any rate, he had seemed, to others and
to himself, a solitary being, upon whom the hopes and fears of ordinary men are
not effectual.

‘* But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the many ties, that, so long as we
breathe the common air [and who shall say how much longer?] unite us to our kind.
The sound of a soft, sweet voice—the glance of a gentle eye,—had wrought a change
upon him, and, in his ardent mind, a few hours had done the work of many. Al-
most in spite of himself, the new sensation was inexpressibly delightful. The recol-
lection of his ruined health,—of his habits, so much at variance with those of the
world,—all the difficulties which reason suggested, were inadequate to check the
exulting tide of hope and joy.’”

“‘History OF Rome” and “ History oF 8. G. Goodrich. Two
books with the above titles, have lately been published. They are designed for the
use of schools, and have been prepared, as we understand, by an approved teaeher.
From a hasty perusal we should think the plan pursued, a judicious one, and that
they were well calculated for imparting such a knowledge of the history of the
countries described, as children should acquire,—that is, a knowledge which will be
worth retaining in the memory, Much that children learn, is not only forgotten,
but ought to be forgotten, as they advance in years. Those books deserve to meet
with patronage, which are useful to men, as well as interesting to children; and
such seems te be the character of those volumes named above.

4

528 Literary Notices. [ Nov.

“A vIsIT TO MY BirTH PLAce.’ By the author of the Pastor’s Tales, &e.”
—James Loring. Mr. Loring is entitled to the thanks of the religious community,
for his"numerous republications of small, interesting works, calculated to lead the
juvenile mind from a contenrplation of those works, too popular indeed, in which a
tempest of passion is aroused, and the feelings wrought up to intensity, without
leaving a savour of piety behind the storm to calm and sanctify the heart. The
works published by this gentleman, generally have all the attraction of good novel
writing, while at the same time, they show in bold relief some christian virtue, and
hold it up for youthful imitation. The prominent character in the little book above
named, is an accomplished English lady, the wife of an officer in the continental
war. She follows her husband to the vicinity of the deadly strife—she becomes
deeply pious—she fades away under the weight of her anxieties and troubles; and
finally sinks away to be at rest.

TO OUR PATRONS.

The “‘ Sketches of American Character” have been more favorably received than
the writer anticipated ; and to that cause, must be attributed the circumstance, that
they have been continued. But the writer is sensible, that more variety, more no-
velty, will soon be demanded. She therefore assures her patrons that, with the
commencement of the second volume, some new arrangement in the Magazine will,
at least, be attempted. The ‘Sketches’ will appear but once more, and the indul-
gence of the public will doubtless be extended to the last representation,—as the
players would say,—in which it will be the endeavor of the writer to portray that
most interesting of domestic scenes—--the fireside of an independent and happy
family.

ri
is
q
1
f
q